


Of Water, Fire, and the Wages of Spite

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dodgy fictional psychology, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale both came through the End of The World intact, but not without a few sore spots. Together, in their South Downs home, they're determined to fix things.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	1. Water

**Author's Note:**

> Just some soft, loving healing fluff, because I needed it right now, and it helped me get words flowing. Inspired by Neil Gaiman's commentary that he feels Crowley and Aziraphale see each other as (and inspire each other to be) better, braver versions of themselves. Note that Our Heroes are both non-human, their psychologies aren't necessarily the same as ours, YMMV in a big way with exposure therapy, I have zero clinical training, and It's Just A Story So Don't Try This At Home.
> 
> Set sometime before ["Of Mistletoe . . .,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960172) since Crowley is fine with fire in that one, but sometime after "Service" ([Part1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612087), [Part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617094)) because of the Romeo and Juliet reference. Internal series timeline? What's that?

Crowley stood in the cottage bathroom, hands on hips, studying the tub.

It was the tub that came with the place, and it was a primeval dinosaur of cast iron, clawed feet and all. Bathing, like all activities involving the bathroom, were entirely optional for beings of Crowley’s sort, but he did like a nice soak now and then, and he’d had his eye on the tub from the day they’d moved in. It had been filed away as a thing for “someday.”

Someday, Crowley decided, was _today_.

Without further consideration, he filled the tub, slipped off his clothes, and sank into the steaming water with a grateful sigh. The tub was enormous, and he was able to get all of himself – long limbs included – submerged at once, only keeping his nose and eyes above the water.

“Crowley?”

At Aziraphale’s call, Crowley surfaced enough to respond, “In here.” His thoughts were already skipping gleefully ahead to the notion that what was enjoyable alone might be even better with two. Aziraphale liked baths, after all – usually with salts and bubbles and other fragrant, luxurious additions, but he might be willing to accept plain hot water just this once.

Aziraphale opened the bathroom door, and Crowley smiled at him, already framing an invitation on his tongue –

– Then Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, and before Crowley consciously processed what was happening, there was a meltdown in progress, and Crowley was out of the tub with his arms wrapped around Aziraphale, trying to talk him back down.

_Idiot,_ Crowley thought savagely at himself, even as he spoke soothing words aloud. _I should have thought about the associations that would bring up. Come to that, h_ _e’d’ve been soaking in this tub from day one, if everything was fine - how could I not see he was avoiding it?_

“I’m sorry, “Aziraphale managed to gasp, eventually. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m – I’ll be fine, I just -”

“There’s no _sorry_ here, angel, unless it’s from me.” Crowley realized he’d reflexively magicked himself dry but was still naked, which made the whole scene even more surreal than it might have been. A quick flick of magic put his clothes back on, and another emptied the tub, leaving it bone-dry.

“S’all right, the water’s gone.” He kept his voice steady, clamping down on the rage that was building up in his chest – at Hell, at Heaven, and at himself.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said again, reflex ground into him by Heaven’s constant guilt-tripping and _it’s all your fault_ mindset, and Crowley wanted to storm the bloody place himself, kick the foundations out from under it, and set the ruins on fire. Not that he’d get very far if he tried, but the impulse was there.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and added, “I’m just being silly, and I’ve ruined your bath.”

“Hey, you’re no sillier than I was last week.” That was when Aziraphale had innocently thought a few candles on the kitchen table would be a nice and/or romantic addition at teatime, only to find that Crowley did _not_ have a good reaction to open flame, indoors, in close proximity to Aziraphale. “We’ve both got our sore spots. Not your fault.”

Aziraphale patted his arm gently in acknowledgement, and took another deep breath, getting his composure back and straightening in Crowley’s arms. Crowley eased off a bit, but didn’t let go, not yet.

“I’m -”

“If you say ‘sorry’ again, I’m going to start, I dunno, tearing out my own hair or something. Don’t.”

Crowley’s tone was light, even teasing, but Aziraphale shifted in his arms so he could study Crowley’s face. “You’re angry,” he said, a neutral statement in a neutral tone that was also a question, yet another holdover from Heaven’s ~~abuse~~ training. _Are you angry at me, and if so, why?_

“You’re bloody right I’m angry. At _them_.” There was no need to clarify which “them” he meant in this context, Aziraphale would know. “You used to love baths, until they took that away from you, and it makes me furious.”

Aziraphale’s face softened, and his eyes were warm as he reached up to brush a bit of hair back from Crowley’s forehead, which turned into a gentle hand cupping the side of Crowley’s face.

“We’ll heal,” he said, all gentle conviction. Then, with a wry twitch of his lips added, “Eventually.”

\---

It was only a few days later when Aziraphale came back from shopping in the village, and set his bag down on the kitchen table with a weighty clunk. Crowley, who’d been wrapped around a chair, soaking in the sunlight that spilled through the south window, roused in curiosity. Whatever Aziraphale had purchased, it was heavier than baked goods, but not in a book-like way.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, then reached into the bag and began setting things on the table. He’d been to the tourist shop, it looked like, the one that specialized in small, gift-y things to take home to your gran after a South Downs holiday.

Fancy soaps tied with ribbon. A glass jar of scented bath salts. A bottle of massage oil.1

Crowley, eyebrows climbing, looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale met his gaze steadily, though he was a bit pale, his jaw set at a determined angle.

“I think,” he said, “I would like to take a bath. With you, if that’s all right.”

\---

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Crowley said, fingers lingering on the buttons of his shirt. Aziraphale was leaning over the steaming tub, sleeves rolled up, swishing water around to make sure the bath salts were thoroughly mixed. The warm, damp air was scented with lavender and roses. “We could wait . . .”

“No,” Aziraphale said, firmly. Crowley recognized Aziraphale’s full-speed-ahead-mode, barreling forward (metaphorically, anyway) the way he did when something finally overcame his coefficient of friction and spurred him into action. “I don’t want to wait.” He looked at Crowley and there was a hard, angry glint in his eye – not directed at his partner, but elsewhere. “I want to take this _back_. Bugger ‘eventually.’”

Crowley gave him a crooked, approving grin in response, and resumed unbuttoning. “Then we will.”

He stripped down faster than Aziraphale, and padded to the tub. “I should probably get in first. Longer legs and all. That okay?” He paused, making it very clear that this was Aziraphale’s decision.

Aziraphale inhaled deeply, bracing himself, then said, “Yes, that’s logical.”

“We can stop anytime, just as a reminder.”

Aziraphale, didn’t answer, but nodded as he continued undressing.

Crowley stepped into the tub, slipping under the water as smoothly as the serpent he sometimes was, and settled back, laying his arms along the edges of the tub. He made an approving noise in his throat that wasn’t entirely for show, as the warmth began soaking into his skin. “Yeah, that’s nice.” His eyes turned to Aziraphale: bare now, and watching Crowley. Crowley could see the ferocious control being exerted but kept his face and words calm and easy in return. “Water’s fine, angel. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Yes, right,” Aziraphale told him, straightening his back as if he was gearing up for something more combative than bathing. Gingerly, he stepped into the tub, arranging himself so he could sit and lean back against Crowley.

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, snugging him against his chest, feeling the tense muscles under Aziraphale’s soft layer of external padding.

Aziraphale managed to relax ever so slightly, more willpower being exerted. His breathing was tight, but not edging over into panic.

Crowley rubbed his chin along Aziraphale shoulder, and planted a gentle kiss just behind his ear. In the humid environment, the petrichor aspect of Aziraphale’s scent was front and center, far nicer in Crowley’s opinion than the floral bath salts.

“D’you remember Rome?” he said, voice low and warm. “After you inflicted oysters on me for the first time?”

Despite himself, Aziraphale laughed at the phrasing. “Yes,” he said. “I think they were about ready to throw us out the door, by the end.”

Oysters had turned into an all-night pub crawl, as the two of them found, increasingly, that they were enjoying each other’s company, and didn’t want to stop. Every time they were about to wrap up, one of them would pause and say, “Wait, have you ever been to . . .” and off they were again, to a new establishment.

It had been the first time, Crowley thought, looking back on it, that they both truly realized how nice it was to be around someone who _understood_.

He’d been in a foul mood that day because he’d had yet another schooling in how useless Hell really was when it came to humans doing horrible things to each other (they were top-notch self-starters, didn’t need _his_ help), and it would have been naive to think Aziraphale hadn’t witnessed more of the same, from the even more hopeless side of encouraging people to knock off the atrocities and embrace their better natures. He _had_ to have been feeling just as useless as Crowley. But Aziraphale was still ready to feign good-natured cluelessness and make an offer of oysters, to cheer up a _demon_ of all people . . . and, maybe, to have a little company to lift his own spirits.

They drank their way through the night, then it was sunrise and breakfast (for Aziraphale, anyway), and then, finally, they settled in a bath house, a hole-in-the-wall _balaneion_ that managed to boast excellent (if small) facilities. They stayed there, soaking, chatting, and (in Aziraphale’s case) snacking until dusk. By the time they were done, the long-suffering (if well-compensated) staff had, indeed, been happy to see them go.

“Next time, we could set up a little table here, maybe a few glasses of wine, some olives, and a few fresh figs,” Crowley said, which was a bit of gentle teasing, since Aziraphale had nibbled through a prodigious number of figs at the _balaneion_.

Aziraphale laughed again, a bit more freely, and Crowley could feel more muscles unclenching.

“I did keep that poor servant running back and forth to the kitchen,” Aziraphale said.

“And then there was Japan, that was another good time.”

“Such lovely hot springs there. And the saunas in Finland, I always enjoyed those,” Aziraphale added, starting to dig into his own memories, beginning to build a bridge from happier times, over the recent past and into the present. He relaxed even more, leaning back against Crowley, and Crowley hugged gently.

“Could’ve done without the honey,” Crowley commented, wrinkling his nose.

“But it does such wonderful things for one’s skin!”

“I thought you were taking the piss, to be honest, that first time. Seeing if you could get me to smear goo all over myself by insisting it was traditional.”

“Would I do that?” Aziraphale was smiling; Crowley could hear it in his voice.

“If you were in the right mood, yeah, ‘course you would,” Crowley said, and kissed Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was a good sound, a relaxing-and-letting-go sound, followed by an interval of silent, appreciative soaking by both of them.

“I wouldn’t say I’m completely cured,” Aziraphale said, eventually. “Holy water and, well, you, in combination, have been a bugaboo of mine for far too long -”

“ _Bugaboo?_ ”

Aziraphale grumphed. “ _Bête noire_ , then, is that better?”

“Well, it’s French. Jury’s out on ‘better.’”

“ _Anyway,_ love, I think I’m getting the hang of baths again. And you in baths. Or I can, with practice.”

“Glad to hear it,” Crowley told him. “We can do this anytime. And . . .” he hesitated.

“And?”

“Maybe we could try a fire, in the fireplace, one of these days. A small one. So we can start working up to bigger ones. Winter’ll be here soon, might be good to have that as an option.” He was tensing as he spoke, but was pleased by how smoothly the words came out.

Aziraphale ran a hand down Crowley’s thigh and rubbed at his knee, massaging. “Are you sure, love? Don’t feel pushed into anything.” He sounded concerned.

“Nah, I’m not. You’re right. It’s good to take things back, make ‘em ours again.”

Aziraphale’s hand slid down Crowley’s shin and began rubbing at his foot. Crowley couldn’t help making a happy noise in the back of his throat. Foot rubs, like back rubs, were something he couldn’t have enough of, now he could get them from Aziraphale.

“Fortune favors the bold, as they say,” Aziraphale commented.

“Mmmmmnrrgh,” Crowley said, because Aziraphale’s thumb was doing amazing things to the arch of his foot, and immediate coherence wasn’t an option. Then: “This isn’t boldness. It’s pure, retaliatory _spite_.”

“Which often has the same effect, if one’s being honest.” Crowley made another inarticulate response, since his big toe was now receiving attention. “I think it might be time to wrap up the bathing portion of the evening and move along to that massage oil, hmmm?” Aziraphale was definitely grinning now.

Crowley was already pleasantly warm and loose from the soak, but a good rubdown on top of it . . . “Oh yes, _please_.”

He let Aziraphale lead the way in getting them out of the water, toweled dry, and relocated to the bedroom, in part because it was a good thing – another taking-control thing – for Aziraphale. and in part because he wasn’t about to turn down a bit of extra pampering. _Especially_ if there were foot rubs involved.

\--

1\. All right, maybe that _last_ one isn’t something to give your gran, but the general theme still holds.Back


	2. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to follow Aziraphale's example, Crowley faces his own elemental fear.

Crowley, kneeling, fussed with wood and paper in the fireplace, getting them just so, while Aziraphale stood back and watched, hands neatly folded in what Crowley recognized as an attempt not to fidget. There’d been a bit of weathered wood out in the back garden, for guests who’d fancied a fire in the days when Wattle Cottage had been a holiday rental, so they’d decided that a perfectly ordinary, non-magical fire would be a good way to start.

Crowley inhaled, exhaled, and said, “Right, matches.” Aziraphale passed him the box.

Another inhale, exhale. _I’m the one setting this fire. I’m doing it deliberately, and it’s under my control. This is safe._ Aziraphale _is safe._ The match scraped on the box, and Crowley touched the flame to his paper kindling. It didn’t take, so another match, and then a bloom of warmth and light.

“Right,” he said. He glared steadily at the growing fire, doing his best to push out all the images of burning books that tried to jostle their way into his head.

A gentle hand on his shoulder. “Shall we sit down, love?”

Crowley rose stiffly, made himself turn his back on the fire even though his nerves were screaming out against the idea.  _It’s contained, it won’t get out._

Aziraphale was watching, concerned.  _See, he’s right there._

Crowley walked to the sofa and made himself sit down. Drop down, more like, and Aziraphale settled in next to him, still watching.

Crowley knew his eyes were amber from lid to lid, and he almost wished for his dark glasses, but . . Aziraphale would know, anyway. After a silent moment, he hissed under his breath.

“Of all the things to be afraid of, it’s ridiculous, fire. Fire’s what I _do_.” Starfire, hellfire . . . they’d always been tools, toys, things he could control, right up until one fire that was too fierce for even him to quell, driven as it was by the echoes of an angelic discorporation and the wild energy of a broken magic circle.

Fire was still all right outside, or somewhere that wasn’t a sanctuary, a home. But here . . . he let his peripheral vision report back that all the books in their shelves were fine, and the center of his focus showed an almost comically small fire, well under control. He concentrated on both images, fiercely.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Aziraphale told him, staunchly supportive. He rested his hand on Crowley’s knee, but otherwise didn’t push for contact, letting Crowley lead.

And that was the thing: if anyone could understand, it was Aziraphale. Without looking away from the dancing tongue of flame in the fireplace, Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own.

Aziraphale, correctly gauging Crowley’s mood, kept his silence, and together they watched as the small fire meekly ate through its allotment of kindling, then settled down into a quiet bed of coals. Crowley hunched forward the entire time, muscles taut, daring the fire to disobey and suffer the consequences of his wrath.

When the last lick of flame was gone, Crowley let himself relax; a full-body exhalation, followed by unwinding, joint by joint, until he leaned back against the sofa and was suddenly aware of being sore all over. Aziraphale let him work it out, holding his peace, solid as the foundation of Eden’s walls (which had never _failed_ ; they’d simply been circumvented). He did turn his hand, though, so it was palm up, fingers twining between Crowley’s.

After a moment, Crowley gave Aziraphale’s fingers a return squeeze. Aziraphale: solid, real, safe, right there beside him. All the books and knick-knacks and carpets and plants in their proper places, the whitewashed ceiling and its dark wooden beams untouched by the slightest wisp of smoke.

Another deep breath and exhale, then, because he had to say something to break the silence and let Aziraphale know he was all right, “Well. That’s a start.”

Aziraphale picked up their joined hands, and turned them so he could gently kiss Crowley’s knuckles. “You’re very brave, love,” he said, all seriousness, and Crowley gave a bark of surprised laughter.

“Brave? For sitting on the sofa and staring down the smallest, most harmless hearth fire in the history of the world?”

“Yes, _brave_. You never cease to amaze me.” Aziraphale met Crowley’s sarcasm with shining eyes and a look of such loving wonder that Crowley, embarrassed, flushed and looked down at the carpet.

“M’not, not really. You, you were the one who went first, y’know. With the bathing and everything.”

“Yes, but it was you that inspired me. I thought that _you_ wouldn’t just sit back out of habit and wait for things to change, you’d try to change them. I wanted to be more like that.”

Crowley squirmed and glared at the carpet, but the flush that spread to his ears wasn’t entirely one of embarrassment.

“I really don’t know where you’re getting that from – but if it helps, I’m glad, and I hope I keep doing whatever it is.” He gave Aziraphale a sidelong glance, and drank in the fond smile and steady warmth the way his plants drank in sunlight.

“You will, love.” So much faith there, it was enough to almost make Crowley believe it.

_Fake it till you make it, I guess that’s always been me. Might as well be the two of us together, if we can keep holding each other up._

“And if that doesn’t work, there’s always spite,” he said aloud. “I’m pretty good at spite, aimed in the right direction.”

“A rose by any other name,” Aziraphale said, still proud and loving, even if spite was an odd thing for a former angel to approve of that much. 

“What have I told you about _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“I’m not to quote it _in bed_ , if I remember correctly.” Aziraphale gave him that smug little rules-lawyering smile, and Crowley responded with a snarl that threatened to twist into a grin.

“Well I’m extending that rule to include the sitting room.” There was a gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes that indicated the letter of the law had been noted and logged, but the spirit was still up for grabs. “Or any room in the cottage. Or . . . anywhere, really.”

“Even during a performance of the play itself?”

“All right, fine – in the unlikely event of us ever being involved in a stage production of _Romeo and Juliet_ , then it’s acceptable. Otherwise, nope, _nada, nyet_.” Crowley managed, just barely, to finish without laughing.

“Yes, of course, love,” Aziraphale told him, prim and proper, and Crowley _knew_ it was going to come around and bite him on the arse somehow, because there was some loophole he’d probably missed, but he’d deal with that when they got there.

He snorted, finally letting the grin spread over his face, and relaxed into Aziraphale’s side, so their shoulders bumped familiarly.

The coals in the fireplace were warm and gentle now. So many times they’d sat in front of a waning fire like this, sharing companionship but not touching, always keeping the necessary distance - as much for themselves as anything, because there were times when it would have been all to easy to give in, and they both knew it.

All in the past now. Just because he could, Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s temple, earning an enchanting giggle-and wiggle combination that intensified when Crowley nuzzled into the downy softness of Aziraphale’s hair, breathing in the clean angel-scent that never failed to to reach the deepest recesses of his reptile brain.1

“You know,” he rumbled in Aziraphale’s ear, “I think I’m getting the hang of fires again. And you around fires.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Aziraphale sighed, snuggling closer. “Because this is lovely.”

“And it’s ours. All ours.”

“Your lips to. Er.”

“She knows.”

“Yes. I rather believe She does.”

\---

1\. A literal thing, in Crowley’s case. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue posting tomorrow. :)


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spite has its rewards.

It wasn’t long afterward that Aziraphale came home from a trip to the village with a new prize.

“The attendant said it’s called a ‘bath bomb,’” he said happily as he pulled it from the bag, pronouncing the words precisely, with prominent _B_ s. “She gave it to me for free, and was very kind about it, said we deserved a gift for being such good customers.”

In his rediscovered enthusiasm for hot water soaking, Aziraphale had quickly run through samples of almost every bath-related offering the tourist gift shop could offer. Crowley raised an eyebrow as he took the offered “bomb” carefully from Aziraphale’s hand. It looked like a sparkly blue tennis ball made of chalk, and smelled like perfume. “So what’s it do, blow up?”

“No, of course not! It’s supposed to dissolve – a bit like concentrated bath salts, with bubbles added in. So very clever.”

Aziraphale was bright-eyed and pleased at the prospect of experiencing a new human invention, and Crowley couldn’t help smiling. “Sounds interesting. Shall we give it a spin?”

–

“You do the honors,” Crowley said, gesturing at the steaming tub. Aziraphale carefully dropped the “bomb” into the water (Crowley had a powerful urge to yell “BANG!” at the moment of contact, which he wisely suppressed). The tub began immediately roiling with clouds of murky blue and green liberally mixed with glitter.

Aziraphale and Crowley both took an instinctive step backwards.

“That’s . . . more intense than I was expecting,” Aziraphale said, as the water continued to bubble. “It’s rather disconcerting, in fact.”

“Downright eldritch, if you ask me,” Crowley said, staring in fascination.

When the bubbling died down, the two of them stood a moment longer, looking at the now-opaque, glitter-infused bathwater.

“I’m not getting in that,” Crowley announced.

“Erm. It _is_ uninviting.” Aziraphale hesitated, then magicked the water clear again. “Well, it was free, and I suppose we don’t have to embrace every new human invention that turns up.”

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley said, stifling a grin – Aziraphale being the very definition of a late adopter when it came to most trends, even the ones he liked.

“Hand me some bath salts instead, would you, love? I think the freesia today.”

“Works for me,” Crowley said, turning to the recently installed shelf that held a collection of neatly labeled jars.

“If anyone asks, however, we did appreciate the gift.”

“Yep, best thing since sliced bread. If you like glitter.”

“Crowley . . .”

“Yes, angel. We loved it.”

A sigh and a long-suffering eyeroll. “Get in the tub.”

“Yes, angel.”

Crowley slid into place, and Aziraphale followed, the two of them settling in for an unhurried soak; the water would stay hot as long as they wanted it to, and pruned-up fingertips weren’t a problem for beings of either occult or etherial extraction.

Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his arms and legs wrapped around the soft, relaxed ex-angel leaning back against him, and sighed happily.

Later, there might be a fire in the grate: warm, gentle light and a bottle of wine to share. More snuggling. As much as they both wanted.

The wages of sin might not be all that, but the wages of spite? Absolutely worth it, in Crowley’s opinion.


End file.
